


dawn to dusk

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [50]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, M/M, maximum domestic softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: Peak romance, thinks Suga with a smile, is doing the dishes for someone without being asked.





	dawn to dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 7: Free For All | originally posted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/25713.html?thread=16191857#cmt16191857)

Morning is two cups of strong coffee, both for himself.

One, he drinks now, one, he tips into a tumbler to bring to work, because the machine in the pantry is a _travesty_ and whatever it churns out can hardly be called _palatable_ , let alone _coffee_. As Suga wraps his hands around the mug and yawns into the steam, he hears the shower come on. The toaster next to him goes off with a soft _ding_.

Morning is Daichi emerging to a pile of buttered toast with his tie, invariably, askew. Some days, Suga straightens it for him. Some days, he waves him off with an innocent grin and lets him leave the house a little unkempt. His sense of humour, as Daichi’s fond of reminding him, can be an exasperating thing.

“That’s what you like about me,” Suga says, every time. It comes easy to the tip of his tongue, tripping off lightly after all these years. He’ll say it with his face buried in Daichi’s neck, laughter bubbling bright on his lips; he’ll say it over the laundry and the ironing and the kitchen sink, too.

Daichi only smiles, never asks in return what it is that Suga likes about him. Suga thinks he knows the answer better than Suga does himself.

Afternoon is an endless string of meetings and paperwork, casual chit-chat at the photocopier and texts from Daichi. Once, Suga’s coworker had swiped his phone as it lit up with a notification, eyes aglow to see _what your lover’s sent you now_ , only to find a message about _how much cabbage you need me to buy for dinner_ ; Suga had burst out laughing at her bemusement and made a remark, only half-joking, about _peak romance_.

For Daichi isn’t measured by the hours, any more than evening is counting down to the end of something. Evening is standing side by side, bumping elbows as Suga hums along to the radio, shreds vegetables and lets Daichi get on with his pot of soup. He’s become a lot more useful since he learned not to burn the bottom of it.

“Pass me your knife and your chopping board when you’re done,” says Daichi, turning on the tap. “I’ll clean up.”

_Peak romance_ , thinks Suga with a smile, is doing the dishes for someone without being asked.

These are their days, and these are their nights: no fleeting rapture, no giddy memories that Suga could stitch into this tapestry of them, only threads, plain and home-spun and patiently, patiently woven, and they are enough, they are more than enough. Suga could not look back now and say, _this is what I like about Daichi_ , any more than he could pick a favourite thread.

Some days, _the black one, like the jackets we used to wear_ ; some days, _the brown one, where Daichi spilled tea all over my freshly laundered shirt one night, and stayed up late getting the stains out._

There’s never been a _when_ , to his falling in love with Daichi. Only a litany of the littlest moments, over and over again.


End file.
